domingo, 16 de julho de 2006

Solitude I name this closed system where all things are alive. At this firsthour I bank neither with my days nor with my nights, but under a quiteseparate account, all that is about me shares my being there. The walls ofmy room are a circumscription created by my will. The light of the lamp is asort of consciousness. The unscribbled sheet before me is clear and populousas a sleeplessness. I brood over my illuminated hands as though they werethe pieces of some game of innumerable gambits. The whole complex of everyinstant is present to my senses.

For Laura to appear, all things must be exactly thus, all must ensure mybeing ideally alone. Laura demands, as she also inhabits, a silencebristling with expectations, in which at times I become what I am awaiting.She catches the whispering between my daemon and my desire. Her white faceis indistinct enough, but not her gaze. What a precision of power!...Wherever my eyes settle, they carry hers with them. And if I close my lidsat last, her own are widely raised and asking. The power to question ofthese eyes transfixes me, and sometimes it happens that I cannot bear theirunwavering depth any longer.

Then it is that the too enchanting fragrance of the dress that Laura wore,of the hands and of the hair of the real Laura, the Laura who was flesh, isborn again from nothing; it dumbfounds my thinking, mingled or thickenedwith the bitter perfume of the dead leaves one burns at autumn's end, and Ifall heartlong into a magic sadness.(Paul Valery)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things that enclose me. or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands (Edward Eastlin Cummings)